


don't wanna know what you're about (just want your dirty little mouth)

by anonymousdaredevils



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Fuck or get-someone-else-killed, I can't write smut so it's probably less sexy and more angsty, M/M, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousdaredevils/pseuds/anonymousdaredevils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One anon's take on the Daredevil Kink Meme prompt <a href="http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1742.html?thread=2858190#cmt2858190">here</a>!</p><p> Matt has to suck Foggy's cock. <s>Or Foggy has to bend Matt over a table and fuck him.</s><br/> If they don't, [badguy] will kill [hostage].</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't wanna know what you're about (just want your dirty little mouth)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from J Englishman's "Abused."

Foggy didn't _mean_ to get off on it.

In fact, until it happened, he wouldn't have thought it possible. Given situation A (kidnapped with another hostage) in the company of situation B (goddamn Batman wannabe _bullshit_ ), liberally peppered with situation C ( _oh-my-god-we're-going-to-die_ terror), sex was so far from his mind that his libido had taken up residence on Pluto.

And yet.

Foggy didn't fancy himself particularly vindictive, nor was he an exhibitionist. He had a healthy selection of kinks, and he'd explored a number of them in his college years and shortly thereafter. He was a man who knew what he liked, and what he liked did not include hate sex, public sex, or insane vigilantes.

And _yet_.

Foggy didn’t even think he was interested in men. Yes, he noticed when a good-looking guy walked by or was splashed across a magazine spread; he had eyes, thank you. It was more that he was secure enough in himself to be willing to call a spade a spade.

_And yet -_

Well, it was never too late to learn something new about yourself.

A groan tore from his lips even as Foggy bit down hard on his cheek to suppress it. His whole body spasmed violently from the mixed signals it was getting, and metal bit into his left wrist from the handcuff that was keeping him secured to a beam. He was sore, bleeding, and very possibly slightly concussed from being knocked over the head before waking up in this creepy-ass abandoned warehouse, but it was _so_ damn hard to give a fuck about any of it when his nerves were on fire.

This was fucked up in so, _so_ many ways, so fucked up he couldn’t wrap his mind around it, so fucked up he felt nauseous when he let himself think about it too closely.

Luckily, Foggy was pretty incapable of thinking about anything too closely as his cock sank deep into the mouth of the Man in the Mask’s again. This earned another filthily beautiful choking sound as throat muscles tightened around the head, the Man’s gag reflex trying to push the intrusion out even as his tongue and lips sucked it in.

 

Foggy had refused to participate at first, of course. So had the Man. But when the guard who’d been left to watch them had pressed a blade to the throat of the kid and drawn a sharp, angry line of blood and hysterical screams, the Man in the Mask had lunged in rage.

A whole lot of good it had done, given that _his_ binds were rusted chains wound around his chest and arms and a literal _choke chain_ around his neck.

For the first few weak thrusts, Foggy’d felt nothing but shame. The Man in the Mask was a captive as much as he was, as much as the poor local college student they’d tailed here was, and Foggy couldn’t help feeling like he was an accessory to rape. No matter how much he disagreed with the actions of the Man in the Mask, he didn’t hate him enough - didn’t hate anyone enough - to wish this sort of violation on them.

And then something - changed.

Between one reluctant thrust and another, the Man went from sitting stiffly still to leaning _into_ it, opening up his throat like a champ, receiving the stroke with a rough graze of tongue. That had shocked Foggy enough that his hips had stuttered, cock twitching out an inch before jerking back in erratically, and the Man had been forced to gulp it down with a choked cough.

They’d both pulled back hastily, a string of curses pouring from Foggy’s mouth that was 70% guilt and 30% his inability to resist watching the slick string of saliva stretching from his slowly swelling prick to the Man’s bruised, red lips.

Lips he’d licked - fucking _licked_ , jesus - before parting again and swallowing him back down.

And how the fuck was Foggy supposed to resist _that_?

 

(Somewhere in the background, the kid cried and their guard laughed. For his own sanity’s sake, Foggy tuned them out and focused instead on the cloth-covered head going to town on his lap. It was another sort of wrong, just a different sort of fucked up, and coercion was in no way consent, but if the Man in the Mask was going to throw himself into this, well - )

 

Inevitably, Foggy lost control of his tongue. It was a thing that happened during sex. He’d assumed it wouldn’t happen now because this shouldn’t have been so much of a turn-on, but, well, it was probably best to just… not have any more expectations tonight.

“Oh, g-god - that’s - holy god, did you sell your soul for those lips? - you look - fuck, _obscene_ , how do you swallow that - gorgeously, dirtily, sexy, swollen, _christ_ , look at those - Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you kiss your mother with that mouth?” he wheezed breathlessly.

The Man in the Mask choked again, but this time it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He drew back long enough to rasp, “Stop. _Blaspheming_ ,” before, _fuck_ , swallowing him down to his balls.

If the Man’s voice had been rough and gravelly before, it was positively _wrecked_ now.

“Screw you, I’m - not resp - responsible, I’m concussed, okay, I’m - _shit!_ ” Foggy swore as the Man made a strangled noise before giving him a particularly vicious suck. As Foggy’s brain went _fzzzzt!_ and went offline, teeth lightly - _dangerously_ , holy shit - skimmed the bare edges of his hypersensitized skin on the outstroke. At the tip, the Man tongued his slit, licking off the pearls of precum dribbling out, before pressing his lips against it.

Foggy was too out of it to think of how perilously close the pause was to a (fucked up, _so fucked up_ ) kiss, but he wasn’t too out of it to miss the desperately distraught noise the Man made.

“I’m sorry,” the Man babbled hoarsely, “I’m _sorry_ , I’ll fix this, somehow, I’ll fix this…”

 _There is no way anyone is fixing this_ floated around somewhere in the mush of Foggy’s thoughts.

 

In the end, it wasn’t anything obscene that finished him off. Or, well - it was obscene, because on his knees, soaked in sweat and dirt and blood, with cum rubbed all over his lips, there was no other way to honestly describe the Man. But it wasn’t sucking or swallowing or strangling that did it.

It was the way he withdrew, angled his head up toward Foggy’s face - and why the fuck was he still wearing the mask? - leaned in, and rubbed his cheek against the spit-soaked length in a grossly inappropriately tender gesture.

It was the way he turned his head when Foggy jerked and let loose, running his lips along the wildly twitching cock as if being guided back to the tip, and held his tongue out to catch the white stripes.

It was the way he sank back down when Foggy was emptied out, burying his face against his thigh, and letting out a noise that was half-sigh and half-sob, breath ghosting over the heated skin as he whispered “ _Sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll fix this, I’m_ sorry...”

The last thing Foggy remembered before passing out was reaching down with his free hand to cup the back of the Man’s neck, thumb stroking over his ear. He might’ve said something; he might not have. The black haze swallowed up his vision, and he was out.

 

The next time Foggy woke up, he was in a hospital. Karen was holding his hand.

“What - ? Where’s...”

Mistaking the person he was asking about, Karen shook her head, lines of stress and exhaustion making her face look thin and worn. “Matt was here earlier. He left an hour ago to... research something.”

The hesitation in her tone was less of the “I’m covering up for him” type and more along the lines of “I don’t even know; it’s Matt.”

“Th’... Man…” Pausing as Karen gave him some water to moisten his lips, Foggy continued. “The Man in the Mask… is he okay?”

Frowning, Karen tilted her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know he was there. It was just you and a boy from BMCC brought in.”

Gasping, Foggy fought to sit upright. “The boy - is he - “

“He’s fine,” Karen interrupted, coaxing him back down with a hand to his shoulder. “He’s fine, he’s - it sounded like he was drugged, but they were wearing off and he just had some cuts and bruises.”

Relieved enough by that for tears to prickle his eyes, Foggy obligingly lay back down. The kid was fine. That was good. That was… that was worth everything. He could process that.

The rest... he’d have to process later.

 

Outside, a shadowed figure perched on the roof of the hospital. His head was tilted slightly as he listened. He caught the words exchanged, but paid them little attention; his focus was on the heartbeat, slow but steady and getting stronger. He focused on the one heartbeat he could hear from blocks away without trying, across the city if he had to.

He focused on it, and he remembered a promise to himself that Foggy would not get hurt by all of this.

He focused on it, and he remembered shattered words mumbled in a dark warehouse: “It’s okay. Not your fault.”

He focused on it, and he cried.


End file.
